Castlevania: The Dark Backward
by Deacon Frost2
Summary: New chap's up, and it only took a month. I'm ahead of schedule (heh). Seriously, though, with school letting out, updates should be more frequent. Please R/R.
1. Before the Storm

            Happy Mother's Day, mommies! Instead of buying my own mum a present, I spent most of the day tooling around with this fanfic. I changed the present-tense scenes to the past, in order to match up with the rest of the story. Aside from that, it's exactly the same as before. 

_Deborah Cliff_

_            Early dusk_

As thunderheads were building and the first tines of lightning began to flash in the slate gray sky overhead, Gabriel Sheridan snuffed out his small cooking fire. A shriveled mutant fish lay in a crude, dented pan at his side, still raw. He knew he could most likely have cooked and eaten three meals before the encroaching storm would unleash itself on the Romanian countryside, but he was far from shelter. He may have been much stronger than any human that walked this earth, but he was by no means invincible. 

            He smiled to himself as he led his mule, Oppenheimer, by the worn leather reins. It was lucky for him that there was no one around to see that smile, because they would probably have shrieked and fled in startled, raw panic, fearing they had seen Lucifer in human form. Sheridan was a leper of the worst sort; his illness, known as "whore's blossoms" in Wallachia city and the surrounding villages, had very nearly overrun his entire body. Sores, some months old, others just beginning to form, bulged and twisted on his face, making a series of craters and protrusions like a mass of clay that has been badly treated by children. 

            His grin widened, revealing a mouth with few teeth remaining. Those that refused to fall out were either broken or decayed to the degree that they had become soft to the touch. His eyes, however, were the most disturbing aspect of all, by far. Red and bloodshot orbs set far back into a somewhat misshapen skull, they stared ahead with an almost self-conscious lack of fear. Nothing of this world held any fear or danger for him, he knew. He had seen too much of the next world and the others past it to waste time feeling anything but contempt for this mortal coil. The eyes said all of this, and much more. They told of life and death, the machinations of Time itself, the idiot laughter and whistling of the spheres. Having been privy to as much as he had been, it was really no surprise that he had gone completely insane.

 He was going to die, by the gods; he had known this since the first lesions began sprouting, which had been nearly a year's worth of moons ago. He had been feeling utter calm, peace, and serenity lately, and as he and the animal shuffled along the drawers of the Camilla Flatlands, his mind returned once again to how this came to be.

            His eyes became half-lidded (one of them did, anyway- the other eyelid was long gone, having simply been there one day and gone the next, lost as one would lose a coin or a bill of sale) in rumination and simple exhaustion. What mattered now was not that he was dying- he had come to accept that a long, long time ago. Sheridan felt an impish sort of glee at the fact that, no matter how things finished up, no matter who lived and who did not, he was about to play an important role in the beginning stages of what could very well be the end of all life in Europe.

            Maybe even the end of humanity in general.

            _Wallachia Town Square_

_            Early Dusk_

            If Sheridan had not been so absorbed in his own bitter and twisted thoughts, he could have glanced to his left and caught a glimpse of nearly a dozen figures on horseback, rushing to the village of Wallachia. But his unseeing gaze was fixed firmly on the horizon, where the trees of the Termogent Forest stood in a rough line, so he missed this. In any event, it is not likely it would have interested him terribly much; men with evil on their minds rarely bother with the affairs of others.

            The town square itself was more crowded than it had ever been in the recent memory of anyone that resided there. Nearly everyone that was well enough to attend had turned out. Noblemen and rich members of the City Council stood shoulder to shoulder with various dirty and unwashed peasants, vagrants, and gypsies who had simply been too curious to keep to themselves, as they usually did.

            In the center of this mass, which numbered around seven hundred with more arriving by the minute, stood the inner cadre of the Wallachia peacemakers. The mayor, Stephen Wilkes, a hale and hearty man for his old age, stood next to four of his most trusted law enforcers. Although normally a smiling and pleasant man, Wilkes' face was drawn and guarded, the wrinkles standing out on his cheeks and forehead like a carving on wood. His eyes drooped and were bloodshot from lack of sleep. The incredible event that was about to unfold had been talked about at length in the bars and taverns of Wallachia and the surrounding towns for longer than he cared to know. Along with the Constable and his deputies, he had been nearly driven mad by the inquiries and protests from civilians and city leaders alike. 

            Next to the unshaven and distressed mayor was Wallachia Town Constable Trevor Belmont. Standing over six feet in height, with massive shoulders, brawny physique, and amazing intelligence to go with it, he had been Wilkes' intended choice for Chief of the Guard since childhood. His face, while moderately handsome, was not threatening and would not have convinced you he was a dangerous man. On the surface, he was a very open and earnest person, almost always unable to hide how he truly felt from others. His eyes, which were large and black as bits of obsidian, often betrayed his emotions. This was never a problem in the line of duty, however; when faced with danger, Trevor Belmont was resourceful, strategic, and fearless. 

            The Constable's best friend and chief deputy, Rikuo Montoya, stood a small distance away with the other two officers. Montoya had served Wallachia for nearly twenty years, almost three times longer than Trevor had thus far. For this reason, he was often the man the Chief looked to when he had to travel or was simply too busy to handle something. 

            Montoya's face, like Trevor's, belied his personality. A thin, intense-looking man, he had small, dark features that made him look uptight and defensive. His nose, which was crooked, discolored, and full of burst capillaries, looked as if it had been mashed onto his face with a spatula. He was also missing several teeth, but this was fairly common among the less well-off citizens. Despite his appearance, which Trevor likened to the Cyclops that was said to roam the woods at night, he was married to one of the most beautiful women in town. Sonja Montoya's family owned the city's clothing store, and while she may have been afflicted with terrible arthritis from her years of sewing, she was surely never in need of money.

In truth, Montoya had a reputation among his fellow deputies as being a joker and trickster. In addition to his experience, his sense of humor was a valuable asset, often succeeding in raising the spirits of his fellows as the rigors of duty took their toll on the exhausted Officers of the Guard. This aspect of his personality was not evident now, however. In fact, Montoya was quieter than Trevor could recall him being in recent memory. 

Montoya, who had been conferring with the other two deputies, McDonald and Chamberlain, turned to the others. "We should get this rolling pretty soon, Constable! Storm's coming in pretty quick! Apt to be the bitch of the season!" He had to scream to be heard above the yelling crowd.

Trevor nodded. "Agreed." 

He stared into the crowd, at the many faces gathered to see what would transpire. He had presided over many town assemblies before, but never one quite as large as this. He didn't think he would ever have to again, either. He scanned the front three rows of people for signs of any suspicious behavior, but there was no real motive behind this activity. It was simply habit, ingrained in him since his youth, when he had briefly worked as a personal bodyguard for Mayor Wilkes. 

He was again surprised at the diversity of this group. He saw a cluster of scholars and noblemen to his right, dressed in comfortable shirts and capes against the somewhat chilly weather. Next to them were a group of ancient gentlemen that could have been fortune tellers or even wizards (if Trevor had believed in such things). A few other random people jumped out at him. A family of four had brought a pig and were roasting it on a spit. A woman on the extreme left edge of the crowd was breast feeding her baby while avoiding the obvious stares of the men nearby. Trevor smiled to himself bemusedly. 

"Here they come, at last," Wilkes announced in a tone of unmistakable relief. He gestured at a loose knot of men on horseback drawing near them. 

Suddenly and without warning, the crowd became violent. A band of about thirty men rushed toward the arriving travelers, brandishing sticks, shovels, and torches. The horsemen, who had just arrived from the Old Druid Low Road, pointed muskets at the attackers, who fell back quickly.

"God pound it!" Wilkes cried. "They'll kill him before he makes it to the platform!"

"No they won't," Trevor assured him. "The Coffin Hunters have it well in hand."

Trevor looked over the rest of the mass, intending to locate any other potential ruffians and neutralize them at once. He was clothed in full battle dress, a remarkably rare thing for him. Over his thick tunic (made from the hides of horses and harpies) he wore his chain mail, a gift from King Seldon, who passed through the town twice a year and had heard tell of Trevor's bravery and compassion. He also had his snakeskin boots, which he had bought from a merchant in the town of Veros. 

There were only a few occasions that called for Constable Belmont to appear in full battle regalia. One was a wedding, which he had never attended. Another was a funeral, of which there had been several lately. The last one was the event that found him here today.

An execution.

There had not been a hanging in the town of Wallachia for decades; centuries, some of the old-timers claimed. This alone was responsible for the sheer number of onlookers. (The crowd, well over eight hundred by now, was effectively double the official census population of Wallachia city- something which troubled the Mayor and his confederates greatly.) 

As Trevor continued his survey of the townspeople, he noticed their faces begin to blur and overlap. Men began to look identical. Even the occasional Brown Person, who stood out in the crowd like an ant in a sugar pile, began to lose contrast. The volume of the noise seemed to increase. The criminal's name was chanted, cursed, and threatened with damnation. Some of the villagers were holding signs, which were either commending or protesting the execution. 

Trevor unconsciously began to ignore the crowd. To him, it had become one face, one entity. The god named Crowd hungered for one thing now: blood. The screams and cries of the men and women began to lose cohesion. Trevor shut all this out gradually and automatically, with no conscious thought or effort. He knew, he did. You couldn't lose yourself in there for long, because Crowd would happily eat you alive, if it didn't drive you mad.

His attention now fully devoted to the approaching entourage, he put his hand on Wilkes' shoulder. "I don't think we have anything to fear from this crowd, but I want you to know that we will resort to lethal force if we need to protect you and ourselves. Understood?"

"Yes." Wilkes looked at him balefully from deep-set, watery eyes. "I pray it shan't come to that."

The horse carrying the bound prisoner approached at the head, and Trevor got his first and last good look at the condemned man.

He was thin, frail, and weak (as Trevor had heard from the various reports that flowed in from the surrounding villages as regularly as the Send River), but the Constable was surprised and sickened to see that the man had been tortured. Scars and wounds covered every visible inch of his body. One of eyes had been removed, and the socket was covered by a carelessly applied patch that leaked a whitish-yellow fluid around the edges. It was unquestionably infected; nearly half of the man's face was overrun with sickening red threads of fever. His mouth, while covered with a rawhide gag, was stained with blood. Trevor supposed the man's teeth had been knocked out, or his tongue possibly cut off.

After a moment, he realized that such surprise was naïve. He was looking at the most wanted criminal Wallachia had seen in nearly a hundred and fifty years. Declan Mulqueen was an Irishman who had immigrated to Romania after the War of a Thousand Heads (which had ended nearly a decade ago), and had become the most universally despised and reviled bandit in the country. He had been responsible (or so popular opinion claimed- Trevor himself had doubts as to the man's guilt) for the murders of countless merchants, men, women, and children. Rumor had it he had even bragged of killing the babies of Ruty LeCook, the woman who had lost her three children in the middle of the night under the assumption that they had been taken by wolves.

_Rumors with absolutely no substance whatever, _Trevor reminded himself again. _That's all we have to go on to judge him. _He stood frozen, staring into the eyes of the dead man for nearly half a minute before Wilkes turned to him and gestured impatiently.

"You're in charge from here, Trevor. Let's get this over with as quickly as possible." The Constable nodded solemnly and took hold of the strong chain binding the prisoner's wrists. Again fully conscious of the stares and shouts of the crowd, he began to lead the man to the gallows.

The wooden parapet had been hastily erected in Wallachia Square that morning, shortly following the news that the execution would be held there. The original plans had called for it to take place in Jova, a small farming community more than fifty wheels south. However, when a crowd of more than five hundred had appeared in Jova three whole days before the event, it was decided to relocate to the biggest city in the country. The Mayor had not been notified of this decision until nearly noon, causing a massive uproar that required the service of all available deputies and carpenters. Trevor had been forced to leave his last two officers, Helzer and Goriyas, manning the station. Despite their bitter complaining, they remained there still, although the chances of them being called to arms for another matter were so slim that Trevor would have welcomed them at that moment.

As they reached the center of the platform, Trevor slipped the noose around the Irishman's neck (it had taken him and Montoya the better part of an hour to figure out how to tie a hangman's knot). He removed the gag from the man's mouth and stood in front of him, blocking him from the mob's view.

"Do you have any final words to impart upon this world?" Trevor asked him, looking into his eyes. "Any protest, curse, wish for a loved one?"

Declan Mulqueen returned his gaze with utter silence. Trevor waited a full ten seconds to make sure he would say nothing, and gestured to one of the Coffin Hunters for the hood. 

_They must have cut out his tongue. Any other man would be screaming and cursing us all. _Trevor wondered if they had bothered to get a confession out of the man first. Or if they had simply beaten it out of him.

_Why don't you do something about it, then?_ A voice spoke up from the dark recesses of his memory. It sounded like his father. His father with several tumblers of ale in his stomach. _If you feel this fellow has been slighted, it's your responsibility to serve justice. You are the Constable._

Trevor shut that voice out. It may have been absolutely right, but what would the repercussions be? He would be fired from his post, and the odds of him affecting the stranger's fate were not in his favor. More to the point, what evidence did he have that the man was innocent, anyway?

Moving with sudden speed and decisiveness, Trevor took the black executioner's hood from the Hunter's outstretched hand (noting the blue tattoo of the Holy Cross as he did so) and began to fit it over the prisoner's head.

"Trevor." 

            The Constable was so startled at the criminal's knowledge of his name that he jerked and dropped the hood. Laughter rippled through the crowd and several insults were yelled, but he barely registered it. The Irishman's voice was deep and guttural, almost nonhuman. Hearing him utter those two syllables was like the sound of a crypt door opening. Or closing forever. Trevor felt sure that the throat issuing that voice must resemble a dark and foreboding cave, filled with moss, slime, and darkness.

            Absolute darkness.

            "Belmont. Hear me out."

            Trevor tried to reply, but his mouth seemed lined with thick fur. He was suddenly aware that, while he was sweating profusely, he was shivering with cold (and fear, he realized reluctantly). He opened his mouth and his tongue made a few idiotic clicking noises before the prisoner continued. 

            "An Age of Darkness is approaching fast, Constable. I can see from your eyes that you're aware of that. That's very well. But what I think you're unaware of is that you are inherently responsible for this crisis. Thissss…" His voice trailed off like a snake, as if he were searching for a word. "This apocalypse."

            For a moment, Trevor simply stared at the man, his jaw agape. And yes, it was true, he could feel the approach of something, a menace, but it was beyond his comprehension. 

            "We want to see 'im hang, Constable!" 

            "Let's us get a look at Satan's soldier, eh!"

            "Aye, cully! Move yer sweetmeats!"

            The many voices of Crowd pummeled at Trevor's ears, but he still ignored them. He picked up the hood and looked the murderer once more in the eyes. 

            "Did you commit the crimes you are accused of?" It seemed an irrelevant question to ask now, especially after what he had just been told, but he still wanted to know. Trevor doubted the man would bother lying now.

            The Irishman chuckled tiredly. It sounded like stones scraping together. His one eye rolled toward the Constable and his lips parted in a sardonic grin. "I am as good as guilty. Are you surprised? I can see from your eyes that you wondered of my innocence." 

            That was enough. "I wish thee well on thy journey," Trevor intoned, as per tradition, and fastened the black hood over the bloody man's head. Without another word or a look around, he exited the platform and accepted the sword Montoya offered him.

            Trevor cut the rope near the steps with the ceremonial blade. There was a sudden crash as the floor, which was supposed to have swung downward as a trapdoor would, collapsed entirely and dropped to the ground. The crowd surged forward like a pack of dogs, eager to claim a souvenir for the mantle. A small smile began to form itself on Trevor's face. 

            There was a brittle crunch as the Irishman dropped through the hole. Although his neck had surely been broken, the body twitched helplessly in a sort of death dance. Urine spilled hotly down the front of the prisoner's pants, forming a wet spot. The crowd quieted as the seconds spun out interminably. A soft susurration, almost an orgasmic moan, swept through the masses. Although it seemed impossible, Trevor could hear the strangled gasps of the dying man as the last few seconds of life drained from his body.

            The smile died like a wind-blown candle before it had even been half-realized. He had never seen a man die of anything other than natural causes before, and he watched the scene as avidly as anyone else in the group. 

            _Camilla Flatlands_

            Before the Storm 

            Sheridan shuffled along the plains just outside of Wallachia town. When viewed from above, the veldt seemed to resemble a Castles board, with random patches of grass among the dirt and dust. Oppenheimer occasionally stopped to take a bite of the dried weed and devilgrass, but Sheridan jerked him along impatiently. The donkey was very close to collapsing of dehydration and starvation, he knew, but time was running very short. He had an appointment with The Prince of Darkness himself, and only a fool would deign to be anything but punctual for a meeting such as that.

            Gabriel Sheridan may have been many awful things, but he was most assuredly not stupid.

            Wallachia city's main entrance loomed just to his left, but he bypassed that with nary a second glance. His destination was the cemetery on the outskirts of town. Even over the steady bass rumble of the thunderstorm that would soon be opening its floodgates, he could hear the steady roar of the city mob. In fact, he was so close to the Town Square that, had Trevor Belmont and his compatriots been alone there, they could have easily heard him shout. 

            The graveyard loomed closer in his vision. And yes, he could feel it, he could feel the Master's presence! He released Oppenheimer's reins and broke into a shambling run, his face breaking into a childlike grin. Bounding along, one leg limping almost comically (a two-week old twisted ankle that had swollen and turned the dusty gray color that is the precursor of gangrene), he resembled a gantry, a mad haunted house on legs. 

            The mule began to move in the direction of Wallachia town, where it could smell food, water, and the manure of other animals. Sheridan didn't mind this at all, however; in his ecstasy he had completely forgotten the animal. A low keening sound began to emanate from his throat. He was scarcely aware of it, but he was weeping in joy.

            "Yes… my… dears… I will… release you…" He rushed onward to the deserted burial ground, where his family, friends, and neighbors resided. He was an asset to the Prince of Darkness. More than that: he was his trusted liaison with this world. There was one simple task to perform, and then he would be reunited with his loved ones once again, to become undead servants of his master. The possibility of reunion had never occurred to him in all of his years of loneliness.

            He picked up speed and began laughing, the tears running to the end of his nose and splattering on his dirty nomad's robe. He stumbled on a large stone near a dropoff and very nearly fell to his death, but managed to maintain his footing. It was an unfortunate thing that he survived, because Declan Mulqueen's prophesied Age of Darkness would have been delayed with his end.

            _I will see them in the clearing where the path ends!_ he exalted, running past this quirk of fate without a second thought. _I will reach the gates of the Fields and then I will sing all of their names!_

_            Then I will sing all of their names!_

            _Wallachia Town Square_

_            After the Execution_

            Even before the body had been taken away in a horsedrawn cart, nearly half of the crowd had disbanded. 

            A team of burly carpenters moved in to tear down the platform, which was stained with the Irishman's various bodily fluids. Wilkes and Montoya were supervising the cleanup, leaving Trevor and the others to steer away the crowd. This was not going to be necessary, however, as most villagers had lost interest almost as soon as the rope had been cut. Trevor himself, however, was shaken and mortified, mostly due to what the prisoner had said to him. 

            About the sense of approaching evil, he was a believer. He had felt it for nearly an entire year now, and while he at first hadn't known what it was, it had been there. Crouching in the back of his mind like a cat waiting for prey, it had planted itself in his subconscious and simply refused to go away, releasing its vague and ominous feelings like a bad smell. As for his responsibility…

            _That is bullshit, _Trevor told himself firmly. _That is absolute malarkey and I will not believe it, I refuse to believe it. And this feeling of doom? Bad weather. Change of seasons. It happens to everyone._

            It was very rational and sensible, but it did absolutely nothing to change what he knew (or thought he knew) in his gut.

            "Hey? Cap?" It was Helzer, looking at him in a concerned manner. "You feelin alright? You look kinda… I dunno…"

            Trevor smiled. "I'm okay. Just feel like a goose walked over my grave, is all." He looked at his deputy out of the corner of his eye. "Kristof, who's tending the bar?" It was their slang for "keeping watch".

            "Nobody, fer right now. There wasn't a soul in town."

            Trevor nodded. "Did you see him go?"

            "No… I just got here. Hey, uh…" Helzer looked slightly embarrassed. "I… just wanted to thank you." He held out his hand. Trevor shook it slowly, his brow creased and an uncertain smile cracking his lips. "You've… well…" He stood up straight and seemed to collect himself. "You've been an inspiration for all of us. I know those two-" he jerked a thumb at Chamberlain and McDonald- "can be real Christless bastards-"

            "They're good men," Trevor interrupted, but he was grinning and nodding in agreement.

            "-but you've led us through the past six months better than any Sheriff I've ever seen. I honestly don't think we'd've made it otherwise."

            Although it had clearly been rehearsed, Trevor was touched. "It couldn't have happened without this team of officers."

            Wilkes and Montoya approached them. "Gentlemen, I dismiss us all until further notice," the Mayor announced. "A group of men handpicked by myself and the Council will handle all official duties for the next couple of days."

            There was a general cheer from the group. Montoya drew a massive goatskin bag of silver coins from his jerkin and handed it to Trevor. 

            "What's this?" Trevor asked, eyebrows raised. 

            "Constable, your last responsibility is to make sure none of us leave the tavern until we're pissing down our legs and staggering into walls."

            Trevor smiled again. "Are you referring to your normal day of patrol?" There was general laughter.

            Montoya grinned good-naturedly. He turned to the rest of them and cupped his hands to his mouth. "Who's going to help me plow every virgin cunt in this town tonight?"

            McDonald, Goriyas, and Helzer replied that they would.

            "I dunno 'bout that, Rick," Chamberlain drawled, spitting a massive wad of tobacco onto the dusty earth. He ran a dirty hand through his red shock of hair, leaving a trail of grime. "Think I might go visit that pretty number of yours. Reckon she took a hell of a shine t'me." He grinned with pride, revealing a set of brown-stained chompers. 

            "You sure he wa'ant _talkin _about her?" McDonald asked, and chuckled in a wheezy voice, spraying spittle from his mouth, which caught in his full beard.

            "I think we just settled _your_ hash," Goriyas put in. "We'll see you when you get home, Montoya."

            Montoya grinned and held up the laboriously tied noose. "Alright, gents, who's next in the gallows?"

            Laughing and joking amongst themselves, they started off toward Soobie's Tavern. The Mayor was in the lead.

            The present-tense scenes were just experimentation on my part (yeah, it failed horribly…). They were a bitch to fix, though…


	2. Montoya's Choice

_Wallachia Town Tavern_

_            Evening_

            Around the time when the last of the sunlight would have been departing from the fragrant summer air (if a single ray had fallen on the countryside that day), the Wallachia Officers of the Guard barked for a fourth round of beers. Sitting comfortably at the bar, Trevor, McDonald, and Goriyas waxed nostalgically about past crimes in the city. The others had found women to pursue, and left the three of them to their own devices. 

            Montoya was at one of the Watch Me tables, engaged in flirtatious conversation with a plump red-headed woman, who had the most amazingly large breasts he had ever seen in his forty-two years of existence. While he had indulged in the company of several mistresses during his marriage, Sonja was never far from his thoughts, and he often regretted his clandestine affairs, although he was fairly sure his wife had knowledge of a few of them. Sonja Delgado-Montoya was fiercely intelligent, perhaps even more than her husband knew.

            "I have the honor of calling myself Constable Belmont's first lieutenant and advisor," Montoya bragged with pride. He couldn't quite recall this young lady's name, but most of the women of the city had only the vaguest notion of the identities of the men they shared beds with. "What I'm not so honored to call myself is Nanny of the Wallachia Guards."

            The woman laughed heartily, and that was wonderful, because her chest bounced and heaved so forcefully that he was actually expecting her to come tumbling out of her blouse like melons from a merchant's cart. And now, as he raised his mug of ale to his lips (_How many is this now? _he asked himself. _Six? Eight? Tentwentythirty?), _he remembered her name. Pettie, it was. Her father was Hash Renfrew, the skilled town blacksmith. A man he dealt with on a weekly basis.

            "Nanny of the Wallachia Guards?!" she replied in utter disbelief. Her laughter tapered off into a sly grin. "Are ye tellin me none o' yer comrades can fend fer 'emselves?"

            "Of course not," Montoya responded with an equally knowing smile, "if they're cleaning the cells or stabling the hosses."

            "You're goin' to have to treat me so very special if you don' want yer Cap'n to hear _that._" She leaned forward and suddenly he felt her hand between his legs, touching and exploring. "Ye can show me somethin special, hmm?"

            As Montoya assured her that yes, he could do that very easily, that would be his pleasure, the bartender, a rather sallow man named Avery, approached the Constable's group. He waited for Trevor to finish telling a joke and stood with his arms crossed, sizing them up as he spoke.

            "I wa'ant present at that murder trial you had there, Chief," he informed them gruffly. His hair, which was a steely silver, stood up in wild patches like jungle undergrowth. Cold blue eyes slid over each of them in turn, seeming to search for something. A sign of fear, perhaps. When none of the three responded, he fixed his gaze on Trevor. "Caught a glimpse o' the crowd you had out there, though. Sick goddamn lot, all of em." He shook his head in disbelief. "A woman came through here bellerin about the Devil leavin his body. Said she saw it right 'fore her eyes, she did." 

            "If you're trying to insinuate that this was some sort of recreational event, I assure you that it was not." Trevor met his stare unflinchingly. He had confronted this man several times before (had arrested him twice, as a matter of fact) and knew he was not a threat. Avery was a jealous old landowner, who held nothing but contempt for the youthful and the joyful. Unable to find a woman to share a house with, he lived in the upstairs of the tavern, leading a pitiful existence among the drunks of Wallachia and travelers who happened by while on the road to warmer places.

            Avery started to reply, but Trevor held up a hand. "I'm not finished, sir. You think this was a ploy to increase commerce? Not at all. Our city is the only colony sizable enough to host a crowd numbering nearly a thousand. You might also do well to remember that the foreign merchants are the only thing keeping this pitiful watering hole from becoming our new holding area for criminals." Goriyas laughed and nodded his head emphatically. He had nine beer steins lined up in front of him like a toymaker's dolls. He swayed often and had to grab Trevor's shoulder for support.

            The bartender seemed about to reply with something scathing, then simply grunted. "If you weren't the blasted Chief, I'd have twelve men in 'ere to show you what's what." He moved off to the opposite end of the bar and leaned on the counter, sulking.

            "You hear that son of a whore?" McDonald asked plaintively. "He just done threatened you, Trevor! He can't do that! Why-"

            "Think not of it," Trevor muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "He hasn't a boy with a stick to threaten us. Are you going to let me buy you a beer, Elton?"

            McDonald snorted. "Y'know I ain't a drinker. Drinkin's for fools."

            "Then fools we will be, then!" Goriyas shouted, and slammed his stein on the counter. "Lord bless us!"

            Avery ignored them and sauntered over to the Watch Me tables. "Anyone else buyin 'fore I go roll a smoke?"

            Montoya rose to his feet shakily. He had a raging erection, and it made a noticeable protrusion in his dungarees. "An ale for me and some brew for the honey," he announced, stumbling against Pettie. He leaned in close to her ear. "I'm going to go inspect our friend's outhouse hospitalities," he whispered confidentially. "You just keep that fine arse put right-" he hiccupped, and they both laughed drunkenly. "Stay right there!" 

            The layout of Soobie's Tavern was very simplistic. A straight aisle from the front batwing doors went past the bar and various tables to the back, where a T intersection led to either the card games (left) or the supply rooms (right). Avery worked hard at making it clear that patrons were not allowed in the storage area, which was often mistaken for a latrine. As Montoya passed this junction, he saw Helzer with his brother and a couple of young-looking girls. He swept by Trevor and the other two (McDonald was explaining about the time he and a deceased officer named Max Steck had arrested a group of gypsies for vandalizing crops, only to discover it had been a donkey from Aljiba that had somehow gotten lost) with a curt nod and elbowed open the front doors.

            The air was crisp and smelled of rain. Montoya loved that smell. It reminded him of his childhood, when he had lived on a small plantation. His parents had been servants, and he had begun working with his hands when he was six. He rounded the front corner of the building and saw a group of men standing around the outhouse, laughing and pounding on the walls of the latrine. They had somehow rotated the structure so that the door was pinned against the stone wall dividing the tavern's property from the neighboring farm. As Montoya watched, a section of the roof fell to the ground and a familiar-looking villager poked his head out. He yelled and cursed his friends, some of whom were so overwhelmed with hysterical laughter that they had simply collapsed in a drunken stupor.

            _Well, can't be waiting on those yokels, _he thought to himself, and untied his stained workpants. He leaned his forehead against the rough wood siding of the tavern, suddenly feeling tired. It took a moment for the flow to get going, but it was worth the effort. __

_            Why aren't you at home with your wife? _He looked around suddenly, as if someone had spoken it in his ear. He resumed his leaning position and sighed gruffly. _Please, leave it alone, _he pleaded. _It's been a long day. Hell, it's been a long _month.

            His conscience wasn't through with him, though. _So what are you going to do? Take that woman down the street, share a room with her for the night? Or maybe you'll just need it for an hour. Then you can go home and explain to Sonja how you had to clean up the Square, deliver the reports to the Council, and rescue a baby from the evil Irish bandits. Or maybe you can-_

The voice of guilt droned on and on, hammering away at his mind. He snorted and spat into the dry, rain-starved grass (although from the looks of the sky, it wasn't going to go hungry for much longer- maybe a few more minutes). _She's had a few men of her own, remember, _he countered, but without conviction. He didn't know that for sure; in fact, he had good reason to believe she had been absolutely faithful to him throughout their marriage. 

            Still undecided, but more torn than ever between his choices, he put the hogleg (Chamberlain's word) away and started to walk back to the entrance. Halfway back, he stopped, a smile surfacing slowly on his face. His eyes stared at the front wall of the butcher shop across the road, seeing nothing. A great realization had occurred to him, and in his fully inebriated state, it was exaggerated to the point where it nearly overloaded his mental switchboard. Moments of introspect were a rarity for Montoya; any of the Wallachia deputies would have told you that. 

            He could go back to Sonja right now, at this very moment. There was no need to even return inside the bar; he had all of his possessions on his person. It would be the start of a new man. He would tell his wife how much he loved her, and tomorrow he would take her to the Garrishes', down the narrow lane from them. Sonja loved Calbrena Garrish's cooking immensely; would have been happy to live on it permanently. And there would be flowers…

            His mind returned to Pettie Renfrew, waiting for him in the tavern with her large hazel eyes and her even larger breasts, which seemed to somehow relentlessly tug at his attention. He grunted and his fists curled in a sudden flash of anger. What business did she have, tempting him with her body (which was probably festered with disease)? What gave her the right to make him betray the woman he loved? Hell, why did _any_ of the women he'd had during his marriage feel it was their place to lead him, use him, and threaten the very stability of his family? His ugly face contorted into a mask of rage that was almost sublime in its purity. 

            "Stupid, feckless tramp!" he whispered, plodding along the dirt road in the direction of home. He was passing the grocer's and the structure that served as City Hall (a fire of questionable origin had burned the building itself to the ground less than a month ago), and the tall Catholic Church of Sister Mary Immaculata loomed ahead on the right, like a soldier defying the gathering army of thunderheads. It was going to start raining any second now (shitting potatoes, as his father Eldred Montoya had been fond of saying), and here he would be, soaked to the skin and still almost five wheels from his ranch.

            "Whore of Babylon!" he cried, his voice rising. He threw his fist into the air like a spectator at a political rally. His speech slurred more than ever. "Slutty cooze! Trifling bitch!" He spat every derogatory name for a woman he could muster to mind. It was all her fault. Why did God allow the existence of women such as she?

            Passing the makeshift councilman's building, he stopped abruptly. His fist fell to his side, striking his thigh with a muffled thump. Jaw hanging agape like the serfs and slaves that visited King Seldon's glass palace for the first time, he stared ahead, eyes narrowed to decrease the blurring of his vision. 

            A hooded figure stood against the northern wall of the church, his back to Montoya. In his hand he held a piece of chalk or ash, and he was writing with it on the stone surface of the temple. None of this seemed suspicious to Montoya at first; he simply assumed it was a monk from the convent. Perhaps he even knew the man.

            As he drew closer (he had quieted and was now intent on getting a look at the man's face; Sonja and Pettie were the furthest things from his mind), he realized that something _was _amiss. Several somethings, in fact. The cloaked figure wore blocky hunter's boots, not the sandals of a Catholic monk. And the color of the robe was wrong… it was a dark gray, resembling the clothing of a shepard or a yeoman. The traditional monk's cloak was brown.

            The last detail (it was so obvious he had completely missed it at first) socked home with the force of a lead ball fired from a musket. This man was defacing property; not just private or government property, but _church _property. And oh yes, oh friends and neighbors, that was definitely enough motivation for Rikuo Vlastes Montoya. This gentleman, be he bard, nobleman, or peasant, would be spending tonight in the filthiest cell he could find, and most of tomorrow in the stocks.

            "Hey," Montoya called. He had intended for it to come out sounding indignant, but he was still so taken aback by the fact that someone had dared to vandalize a church (and not just any church- Sister Mary's was so large it could be rightfully considered a cathedral) that it ended up sounding confused, even questioning. "Stop that, you! I'm an Officer of the Guard!" That came out better. 

            The figure turned, and Montoya had just enough time to register that it was a woman (and not anyone from Wallachia) before she turned and was off running, her feet kicking up small bursts of dirt. Her robe billowed out behind her in a cloud, and as she ran, picking up speed, it caught on a board protruding from the badly broken fence on the edge of the church's land. The cloak, which was tied around her neck, pulled taut, and she was jerked to a stop. Montoya could hear her small grunt of surprise. 

            That was all he needed to snap him out of his trance. He broke into a lurching, drunken sprint, hoping that she wouldn't free herself before he could reach her. That sure had been pretty funny, though, the way she had clumsily trapped herself. If she hadn't been so tragically foolish that she couldn't keep out of her own way, he might have gone on staring in utter disbelief as she fled across the plains, cresting the small hill on the horizon and eventually disappearing. He laughed harshly, more an articulation of frustration than humor, and picked up speed.

            She saw his approach and decided that the robe was expendable. Pulling the knot free from her throat, she left it draped over the fenceboards like a piece of wash and wheeled around in the direction of escape.

            "No, you _shan't_!" Montoya yelled, and lunged at her with his shoulder out, as it was recommended to tackle criminals. He caught her almost perfectly; in retrospect he wasn't entirely sure she had been really trying to escape. He threw his arms around her in an embrace that would have seemed romantic under other circumstances. She was lifted off the ground and they fell to earth with a bone-breaking thud, sliding almost ten feet. Montoya distinctly heard a brittle snap; something had separated in her shoulder, he was sure of it.

            The woman gave a startled gasp of pain and began writhing on the ground. He used this opportunity to roll off of her and looked for something to tie her up with. He glanced behind himself quickly. It had suddenly occurred to him that she might not be alone. As a matter of fact, vandals and harriers _never_ traveled by themselves. That was just the way it was. The immediate area seemed deserted, however, so he turned back to get a look at his detainee's face.

            She was a woman, all right, but utterly unlike any woman _he _had ever seen before. Her eyes were brown and muddy, like his, and she had a thin, cruel-looking mouth that was, at the moment, twisted into a grimace of pain. Her lips were pale and purple. She had beautiful blonde hair that looked like it would have reached to her shoulders (as it was spread out behind her head in a fan, he couldn't really tell for sure). All of this seemed relatively normal. But there was something about her face that bothered him. It was smooth, unlined, devoid of any wrinkles or texture whatsoever. Even as her mouth moved in silent groans of pain, as her eyes squinted shut and a single tear rolled from the corner of one, no creases or lines appeared on her countenance. It was strange. It reminded Montoya of a scarecrow, or a golem. She looked less like a real person and more like someone who had been sketched by a particularly unskilled artist. 

            "Who are you?" he asked, running his tongue over his lips. They, along with his whole mouth, were very dry, and he didn't know if that was from running or just the excessive amount of ale. "I demand your name, traveler. Should you cooperate without resistance, I may spare you from an extended sentence."

            The woman finally opened her eyes. The brown depths surveyed Montoya, seeming to analyze him. She raised one of her small hands, as if she were waving hello. He knelt in front of her expectantly. 

            "_Pnung,_" she said in a flat, monotone voice, and at once Montoya felt an immense pain bolt its way through his back. It seemed to twist through his spinal cord like a rope around a tree; at any moment it felt as if he would simply break in two. He collapsed to the dry ground, his breath coming in harsh, startled gasps. And although it seemed impossible, the pain was increasing. He hadn't the strength to scream to begin with, but now he could barely summon breath into his lungs. If it didn't let up soon, he would simply die of suffocation. 

            _DIE! _his mind yammered aimlessly. The pain drove out all thought and reason, reducing him to a jerking figure in the dirt and dust, rendering him helpless as an infant. _I WANT TO DIE! DIE! DIE! PLEASE!!_ And even that was lost as the pain rose to a shattering crescendo. Spit dribbled down his chin and snot blew from his nostrils in small bursts. His eyes stared hugely into the sky, not even noticing the first drops of precipitation that fell onto his face, and as his body continued to spasm, they began to fill with rain. His head, wet from sweat to begin with, was slowly becoming covered with dust as he rolled from side to side. 

            The pain finally began to subside after two more eternal minutes. He had begun grinding his remaining teeth with such force that, had the agony not retreated, they could very possibly have been reduced to powder. His seizure gradually ended itself, and he lay there, staring up into the clouds, his breath returning in a slow but steady hitching. Some dim part of his mind urged him to get up and see if the woman had taken to her heels, but he didn't have the energy to lift his head. 

            _What just happened to me?_ he asked himself. _What did she do? Did she hit me with some kind of branding iron? _He tried to raise an arm to wipe the rain and tears from his eyes, but was unable. The thought that she could very well have shot him with a musket and he could be laying here bleeding to death came to mind, but immediately following that came another, far more disturbing possibility. 

            _Magic._

Montoya's vivid imagination was adored by his wife and two children; he often applied it to his work, as well. In instances like this, though, he had found it could work just as well against him. The very notion of a wizard (or witch, in this case) running around the foothills of Wallachia and scribbling designs on walls was not only unbelievably stupid, but also fairly amusing.

            Magic. Magic. Magicmagicmagic. Say the word enough and it would lose its cohesiveness. He wanted to make it meaningless, make it nonsense, make it nothing.

            He closed his eyes and tried to get his brain to calm itself. His mind was a small boat caught in a whirlpool. The woman, who was she? Where had she come from? And, most important of all (at least at the moment), what had she done to him? And on the heels of that, what would Sonja do when he failed to return home?

            That guilt-ridden part of him (_weren't concerned about that ten minutes ago were you ricky no sir_) tried to reemerge, but he fought it back easily. He knew he should tell Trevor about the woman immediately. In fact, they should probably get a search party formed and patrol the drawers. But he didn't think he would. From the way he was feeling at this moment, he thought he just might head straight home and sleep through the entire farming season.

            But he still couldn't _move_. 

            "What in hell's name?!" he asked the looming sky. The clouds were bloated and pregnant with rain. As if in reply, the shower became a downpour, and he suddenly realized he would soon be laying in a puddle of mud, like a sow enjoying a relaxing afternoon. But his condition was improving, he realized. He hadn't been able to talk a few minutes ago. Now he tried to move his hand and his fingers clenched, open and closed, open and closed, as if he could draw strength from the rain-smelling air itself. 

            _I want to roll a fag_, he thought glumly. Then he remembered that his papers and bag of tobacco were in his breast pocket, which was soaked through. This did absolutely nothing to improve his mood, which was as stormy as the heavens above. 

            The wind, which had been fairly passive throughout the evening, picked up suddenly. Something light, perhaps a sheaf of parchment, fluttered over him and settled on his face. He stared up at the sky, uncomprehending. It was suddenly pitch black. What was going on here?

            He realized what had happened, and poked his tongue out, feeling the texture of the material. It was cloth, and soaked with rain and mud. Having nowhere to spit, he swallowed it back with a grunt of disgust. To take his mind off of it, he tried his arm again and found he could bend it a little at the elbow.

            Movement was returning slowly, like the sand of an hourglass. His legs were still useless, though, and he knew if he didn't get moving soon he would probably be hosting a bad case of pneumonia. He remembered his neighbor's daughter had succumbed to that less than three years ago, when there had been an epidemic that had claimed nearly a dozen lives.

            Montoya tilted his head, putting his ear to the muddy ground. Was that _rumbling_ he heard? Possibly the rumbling of an approaching chariot or stagecoach? Of course! What else would it be? What more could possibly go wrong on this night for him? The execution had been a day at the market compared to the rest of his evening.

            He suddenly realized how funny he must look. He was laying in the dirt (only now it was an absolute mudpit and could not be called anything else), a ragged bit of cloth on his face (which he knew- absolutely _knew- _had been used as a sweatrag or a handkerchief by a wanderer or a monk), drunk as a lord and unable to move. He laughed, softly at first, then building into a near-hysterical scream, jerking his head so much that the cloth fell to the side of his head with a splash. His mouth hung open as he released his mirth, and wind-driven rain swished in, slightly stinging his face. And why not laugh like the village idiot for a while? It might be his last chance in this world. The rumble had grown stronger, much closer now, and he imagined how he would look, sprawled in the middle of Great Deacon's Road like a child awake too late on All Hollow's Eve. The driver would likely not even pause. Who would complain about another dead vagrant?

            The approaching noise became deafening, and over it Montoya could hear the cracking of a whip and the ninnying of horses. He craned his neck to his right, a grin of pain etched to his face, and saw with relief that it wouldn't run him down; it would pass nearly fifteen paces behind him. That was good. He could almost sit up by now (his damn legs were still being unresponsive), and he would be bound for a warm fire and his wife's arms as soon as he could handle the journey. And he would tell her everything, editing neither his bravery nor his pure foolishness. She would listen raptly, he knew. Unlike most couples in Wallachia city, Rikuo and Sonja talked often and laughed a lot together. Trevor Belmont and his wife, however, were not so lucky.

            The rumbling filled the world. He couldn't think; the clank and groan of the wheels, the yelling and laughing of men and women, and the hoofbeats of the horses blended together in a cacophony that drilled into his brain like an icepick. He heard the carriage (it was actually a wagon without a top, and it was full of gypsies) pull up behind him. The driver shouted at the horses and they stopped, the overpowering noise falling almost completely silent, except for an occasional remark from one of the crowd in the wagonbed. 

            "Who's there?!" Montoya cried. He finally _was_ able to sit up. His back crackled like the poppers during the Festival of Wide Earth. He turned and looked up at the driver. His legs were still unwilling to cooperate. He was starting to get seriously worried. He caught a glimpse of the cloth scrap that had been clinging to his face. He didn't know for sure, but he could almost swear he saw writing on it. Could the vandal have left that in a panic?

            The gypsies were looking at him expectantly. Their expressions ranged from amused to concerned.

            "Hile, fellow countrymen," Montoya greeted at last, tapping his throat with his index and middle fingers. It was a rather formal address, reserved primarily for individuals of authority and, in this case, those that were asked for a favor. It conveyed respect, courtesy, and, above all, the promise of honorable intentions.

            "Hile, Guard o' the Watch," responded the driver. He was an older man with a rough, dirt-choked voice. He was wearing normal village attire, Montoya saw. Nothing that would make you think he was a gypsy. It was only his monocle that gave him away. None of the permanent residents of the villages used them anymore. It hung at his chest, penduluming back and forth as he spoke. "Are you in need of a ride? We're traveling south. You don't look like you're in proper condition for such a jaunt." He chuckled, a single exhalation that revealed his large, horse-like teeth. 

            "I would be indebted to you if you could take me," Montoya said in a rush. He was tripping over his words in desperation. He wanted to hurry and get going. The rain pounded down with unending strength. He was suddenly freezing. Snow never came to Wallachia, and he was not used to such low temperatures. "I just left the bar to walk home, you see… and I was attacked by a highwayman. He…" He paused, realizing he'd assigned the woman a male position without being aware of it. "He overpowered me quite easily. I'm afraid I haven't the strength to walk."

            The driver nodded, his lower lip curled in apparent anger. "Those homeless, thieving curds! We can't sleep without someone on lookout. Gina! Vargas! Help him!"

            A muscular, olive-complexioned man and an equally large woman in a _serape _jumped out of the wagon. Wordlessly, the man lifted him onto his shoulder like a giant alcoholic baby.

            "Hold on," Montoya said suddenly. He gestured to the woman named Gina. "There's a scrap of cloth in the puddle over there. See it?"

            "Yes. Is it yours?"

            "Yeah, I wrote something on it." She handed it to him and, yes, there _was _writing on the scrap. Not a lot, but enough to pique his interest. There were simple letters and designs across the cloth, some of which looked vaguely familiar. Vargas set him down gently on a small pile of hay in the wagon. He thanked the man and put the scrap in his soggy rear pocket. Surely one of the monks or City Council members would know what those runic-looking letters meant. He was sure the woman had dropped it (possibly from her cloak) and that it would lead to her capture. 

            The driver cracked his whip and yelled to the horses, and they were moving, slowly at first, but picking up speed so gradually that it was nearly unnoticeable. Montoya leaned his head back against the wooden side of the wagon and closed his eyes. A grateful sigh escaped from his lips. 

            "What's it like being a Guard, mister?"

            Montoya opened his eyes again (oh but he just wanted to sleep) and saw a small boy looking at him admiringly. The child had large, innocent brown eyes and wavy black hair. He was slightly pudgy, and he fidgeted with his hands constantly. Montoya thought he was one of the cutest things he had ever seen.

            "It's difficult," Montoya replied after a moment. He smiled, the numerous gaps in his teeth making him look like a world-beaten hillbilly. "Every day is different. Sometimes we arrest bandits. Or murderers. Sometimes we help deputies from other towns." He coughed and cleared his throat, which ached horribly. "Oh yeah, sometimes we hunt dragons." He said this last as if it were a minor inconvenience, like the reports after an arrest. 

            "_Real dragons?_" the boy asked in awe. "You _hunt _them?" 

            "Got to protect the village." He tipped a wink at a smiling, moon-faced woman who appeared to be his mother. 

            The boy squirmed, making himself comfortable. "What else do you do?!"

            "A _lot_, my young friend. Want to hear a story?" 

            They rolled on under the soft moonlight and the lashing downpour. It had not occurred to Montoya that what the woman had written on the wall could be even more important than the message on the cloth. Just behind the general store they were passing walked the nervous, insane Gabriel Sheridan, who waited for the coming of his Master with mixed feelings of expectation and icy fear.


	3. An Old Friend

            Well, it only took a month, but the new chapter is finally here. I blame school, work, and a rather annoying case of writers' block. Yeah, nothin like a little stress… 

            _Great Deacon Road_

_            Midnight_

Less than ten minutes after Montoya's rescuers had departed with their alternately despairing and elated new passenger, Trevor Belmont stood beneath the eves of Soobie's Tavern, his arms folded across his chest. His black eyes surveyed the rough landscape of the Camilla Drawers in front of him, but he saw nothing. His thoughts were traveling faster than any horse he'd ever ridden; the words of the hanged man were a constant litany in his head, and had been since he'd finished his last beer. In the end, he'd managed to finish even more than Goriyas, who was now sprawled atop the piano in the corner in a small puddle of ale. Old Duncan Gibbons had just arrived (who smoked so much of the grass and opium that Trevor felt sure he must piss green) and was plinking his way through some of the songs that villagers claimed not to know of until the children had gone to bed and the women were feeling particularly wild. Old Wallachia favorites like "A Keg For the Kids" and "Toothless Marie", which were dragged out from under the table when the hour grew late.

            _This is not a good time to be ruminating_, he told himself. And so he was right; he had consumed so much beer in the last three hours that he could not even stand straight. The letters on McAfee's Butcher Shop across the lane doubled, trebled. He had no business walking home on his own tonight. Best to wait until someone left who could give him a ride. 

            _But I can't ride a horse tonight!_ His stomach seemed to yell in shocked surprise. _It's unthinkable! The road home will be paved with vomit!_

            Trevor chuckled weakly to himself and began to descend the stairs. Fine, he could walk it. He lived less than three wheels from here, anyway. But he would sleep on the floor or in the stables tonight. No sense burdening his family with the consequences of his indulgences. 

            He had just reached the bottom of the stairs (the rain found him then and he drew back under the eve with a slight hiss, as if it burned to the touch) when the tavern doors blew open behind him. He turned and saw the girl Montoya had been wooing in the back corner by the card games. That brought a sudden and important thought to the forefront of his consciousness: just where the hell _was _Montoya? He'd been gone for at least a half an hour, hadn't he? He turned to the woman (who was now staring at him with a wary mixture of amusement and unease) with a single finger held up, as if he had a very important point to make. His foot slipped and he fell down the remaining two steps into a deep puddle, causing a massive splash.

            "Damn fecking Avery," he muttered. Although he would not remember it later, he had slipped into an unconscious imitation of the Irishmen that sometimes passed through the town. "I've tole him countless times to mend this pothole…" The world wavered in front of his eyes, and he leaned forward to throw up. Nothing happened, however, and he fell back into the puddle, his chest hitching. Less than twenty minutes ago, Montoya had been doing the exact same thing about a hundred and fifty paces away.

            Pettie descended the steps slowly, holding up the hem of her dress primly, and looked down at the fallen Constable. "Are ye feelin perky there, Chief?" she asked in a lightly mocking tone. "The night's dinner settin okay in yer tummy? Well, I've got a favor to ask of ye, so I do. If ye wouldn't mind pointin me in the direction your pompous confederate went stumblin, I'd be happy fer my daddy to haul you home wid' 'is hoss."

            "No horse," Trevor grunted thickly. "Not tonight."

            "Well, ye seen 'im?" she asked impatiently. Like many of the city's more religious folk, she had a deep-seated dislike for the Constable that she wasn't fully aware existed. If asked directly, she would have hotly denied it. "He lef' me for another of his gilly-girls? I'll tell him how I take to that myself!" Trevor held out a hand, palm side up, to indicate his ignorance. The hand seemed to mysteriously gain weight when he raised it, and it plopped into the puddle with a soft splash, wetting the lady's dress. Pettie nearly shrieked in outrage. It had been one of her mother's finest, and her father would skin her alive if it were ruined during a night at the tavern.

            Pettie stood indecisively, her teeth grinding. After a moment, she turned and elbowed open the batwing doors, muttering decidedly unladylike words under her breath. Trevor sat up and shook the muddy water out of his shoulder-length black hair, which was now dotted with stones and pebbles like a bridesmaid's confetti. He rose to his feet like a geriatric, holding onto the wooden rail (which was used to tether horses in better weather) at the base of the steps for balance. He took a deep breath and turned in the direction of home.

            _Okay, _he thought in an attempt to boost his self-confidence. _It's not a long walk. Up the Deacon's, make a couple of turns, and I'm on my road. Dinah and Lucius will have been finished with the day's work long ago, so I won't disturb them by sleeping in the shed or the stables._

            He started walking in the opposite direction Montoya had gone, heading into the heart of Wallachia. The Great Deacon Road stretched all the way to the Town Square if you walked far enough on it. Once there, it intersected with all but one of the streets in the city (Montoya's, which he shared with four other families). From this hub, you could travel anywhere you wanted. The Library of Scholars and Timber Marketplace were in the north; God alone knew Trevor spent more time breaking up arguments at the marketplace than the merchants did selling things. To the west were most of the business establishments. This was where Soobie's Tavern, The Iron Colt (Hash Renfrew's arsenal shop, which had been turning a tidy profit since the start of the War of a Thousand Heads), a number of restaurants and saloons, You Sew and Sew (Sonja Montoya's clothing and linens), and the Catholic church resided. Other roads led to-

            Trevor stopped and whipped his head around to look at the church. His hair took a moment to follow and flew into his face like a muddy rag. He wiped it away impatiently and bit his lower lip. He hadn't been to the Church of Sister Mary Immaculata since he was a squire for the noblemen. He had a friend there, he knew. A good friend he hadn't spoken to in anything more than passing for nearly a decade. Trevor felt a sudden rush of joy and hope. Emmerich Corso, a loyal member of the parish, would be more than capable of explaining these feelings of guilt and impending doom to him. The more Trevor thought about it, the more convinced he became that he was simply ashamed of himself for leaving the church and denouncing God. After all, when was the last time he had prayed?

"It's been one hell of a long time," he admitted to himself. His speech was slurring even worse than before. But he was walking straight, for a wonder, and the urge to heave up every last ounce of stomach acid had left him, at least for the present time.       

He resumed his journey toward his new destination. His feet plopped in the mud and splashed freshets of rainwater in every direction. He remembered how his mother had warned him to never walk through muddy fields in the rain, because the bloodroaches hid there. One day he had been swimming with a friend (_Was that Emmerich? _he thought in a sudden flash of surprise. _No, another boy, not particularly bright…_) in the creek just inside the Termogent Forest and had emerged to find himself covered with large black bugs that reminded him of the moles that covered his father's back. They had clung to him with manic, possessed determination, and he had brushed a few of them off. Then (this had most likely been a child's imagination at work, but thinking back he was not so sure) he had felt a queer _draining _sensation, as if his strength were being siphoned from his body. The other boy had helped him pull some of the more stubborn ones off, until they had come across a bug that was stuck so fast, its head had stayed embedded in his arm and continued sucking even after it was dead. That was when Trevor had realized with numb shock and terror that they weren't just biting him; they were sucking his _blood, _they were trying to get under his skin and burrow into his _body, _and he had given voice to a scream of such revolted horror that two farmers from opposite ends of the creek had come running, sure that a boy was being eaten alive by a coyote. That evening Trevor's father had held a heated iron rod to his wounds to cauterize them, and he had slept sitting up for nearly three weeks.

This train of thought was interrupted by the yells of some revelers that were emerging from the bar. Trevor looked away from the tavern, hiding his face. Nothing could make residents of a town more uneasy than a Constable who was not fully in control of his faculties. Mayor Wilkes had warned him regularly that none of the deputies should ever be seen at the pubs more than once or twice a month. More than that would stir up gossip, and such talk was never good for public image. 

Without warning, a sudden cramp twisted its way through Trevor's stomach. He gave a small cry and fell to his knees almost gracefully, landing in mud and soaking himself. It was like some weird sort of dance move. He leaned forward with his arms held in front of him, submerged in the puddle halfway up his forearm. He had time to think to himself _Well, this is no way to observe the pristine image of the Wallachia Guard_, and then he was heaving up the contents of his stomach. He threw up twice, burped sourly, and let go a third time, his eyes tearing up and his nose stinging. It seemed to last forever. When he was done he glanced over to his left at the group that had just exited the tavern. They seemed preoccupied in a conversation of their own, he saw with relief.

            They would talk anyway, he knew. People always did. The woman would mention the incident to her neighbor over the wash in the morning, or maybe one of the men to his wife in bed. He grunted, rising shakily to his feet. He supposed they might not have recognized him. If they had, an insult of some sort would probably have been thrown like a piece of rotten fruit. _Looka there, folks! Lookit our exemplary Chief on his knees! Mebby he'd like to lead 's all in some prayin! Our Constable's finally foun' God!_

            He walked on towards the steps of the church, his stumble gradually becoming a more confident stride. The wind made his eyes water continuously. Nasty ropes of mucous hung from his chin, and he wiped them away with the back of his palm. An acrid aftertaste filled his mouth like a lingering worry. 

            He picked up speed, his feet smooching in the soft mud, his breathing light and quick in his ears. Aside from the embarrassing episode with the tavern patrons, he felt great. He was blackly drunk, to be sure; any more beer and he would probably have been laying next to Goriyas on the piano as Old Man Gibbons (Mad Gibby to most people) feverishly played his way through "M'Lady Tess" or maybe "Under Her Skirt", the bullthroated voices of the farmers and merchants coalescing into an amusing lullaby. He reached the foot of the church's granite steps and gazed up at the wooden double doors. 

            It looked as high as the Denadoro Mountains.

            _One at a time now_, he thought, and started slowly up the steps before he could think of a good reason to turn around and go home. His snakeskin boots, which were so new that they had not yet fully conformed to the shapes of his feet, made a strange click-rasp sound on the stone stairs. He smiled tiredly as his breathing grew more labored. This was a good trip to be making, he knew. Even moreso, it felt _right. _Surely Emmerich would be able to explain why he had been feeling such dread for the last two Sowing Seasons. He was sure it would simply amount to guilt at rejecting the ways of the Church. He had given up the slightest interest in attending Mass with Dinah and Lucius nearly two years ago.

            He reached the halfway point of the steps, which was a small landing. As he was mounting the next riser, his foot slipped and he fell again, landing on his bottom with a rude thud. He teeth clamped together on his tongue painfully, spraying blood from his mouth like a hellspawned frog. He rose to his feet again, holding his backside, and shakily went up the rest of the steps. 

            "Made it," he muttered smugly, and elbowed open one of the wooden doors. The effort left him feeling weak, and he backed up a step, realizing almost too late that he had no more ground to support him. His arms pinwheeled madly for balance, and for a manic second he thought to himself _Look at this! I'm going to fall down an entire flight of Church steps! I won't be found until the morning when the day's trading begins! Lovely, lovely irony! _But then he found his footing again and entered the building, his pulse still beating strongly in his ears. He felt the beginnings of a monstrous headache.

            He moved forward with his hands held out in front of him, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. The inner vestibule was very spacious, with dozens of rows of pews, several candelabra (a few of which had been lit and threw off a faint campfire glow), and a number of painstakingly crafted sculptures, depicting the various Stations of the Cross. The far wall above the altar presented a figure of Christ as he had been crucified. A random thought flew into Trevor's head, like a bat darting out of the shadows: how had that statue been raised onto the wall? It looked like it weighed at least a thousand kilograms. 

            Moving to the small table in the corner without even realizing it, he dipped his fingers in the bowl of holy water and made the sign of the cross. A dull rush of shame went through him. It had simply been habit. There had been no belief or respectful motive behind it. 

            "C-C-Constable?" a voice asked from the darkness behind him, and Trevor jerked around in the other direction, so surprised that he fell on his ass for a record-breaking third time that morning, bumping his head against the rim of the table and splashing water onto the ornate tablecloth. The figure ran forward and Trevor saw it was a young man he knew. Dennis Guilder had served the Catholic community since he had been a young boy. He was slightly feeble-minded; his parents had abandoned him when he was an infant, leaving him on the steps of the church. That year there had been a lot of parentless children left on those stairs, he remembered. A man had also thrown his two-year-old daughter to her death off of a bridge right outside of the All-Hands Village. When asked, he had calmly told the deputies that a demon, who had possessed his wife (her body was never found), had made a new home in the soul of his daughter. He feared that he would be the next vessel for the spirit. "A-A-Are you ok-kay, Constable Belmont?" 

            "Yes, Dennis," Trevor grunted thickly. "Never better."

            "I haven't seen _yuh-you_ here in a while." Dennis held his hands clasped in front of him, kneading the knuckles like bread dough. Occasionally one of them would pop, causing an echo in the massive structure. That was another thing that Trevor remembered. The acoustics were so strange here that you couldn't talk at all, for fear that people would hear you on the other side of the room. He felt a sudden wave of nostalgia. This place reminded him of a time when things had been simpler and better. His job had been less stressful, his marriage and family much stronger, and-

            Ah, yes, but that was why he had come!

            "I've had a bit of a…" He searched for the right phrase. "A… ah, crisis of faith. I haven't attended here in a long time, Dennis."

            Dennis nodded soberly, his hazel eyes never leaving Trevor's face. "I-I-I-It's alright, Constable. God f-forgives all of our eh-errors."

            _Try explaining that to Declan Mulqueen_, Trevor thought suddenly, and his arms prickled with gooseflesh. He rose to his feet for what felt like the hundredth time and crossed his arms over his chest. "Is Emmerich Corso here?" he asked softly.

            Dennis brightened. It was almost like a lantern had been ignited within him. He smiled and nodded eagerly. "Oh yeh-yes, sir! He's a Father now! But-" his smile grew uncertain- "he's been very very i-ill, lately."

            A frown creased Trevor's features like a wadded sheaf of parchment. "Sick, you say? With what disease? It's not the tubeneck, is it?"

            Before Dennis could answer, another man spoke. He had been standing in the doorway of the living quarters, just out of the soft candlelight's reach. Trevor looked at him with some surprise, dismayed that he had missed the man's presence. The third man, who wore spectacles, looked older and a bit overweight. He wore a decorated robe with a hood and woolskin dungarees. His arms were adorned with multi-colored rings. When he spoke to Trevor, his jowls quivered. He had a light speckle of facial hair, making him look a bit like a retired soldier.

            "Father Corso is not receiving visitors," the elderly man said. "If you like, you may request an audience with him after this Sunday's meeting. Otherwise-"

            "Is he dying??" Trevor asked suddenly. It seemed the only reason why the gentleman (who was clearly a doctor and not a member of the clergy) would evade such an honest, simple question. "Does he have something incurable?"

            The doctor shook his head, not replying in the negative but indicating ignorance. "I'm afraid we can't say at this early stage. He has been weak and feverish of late, but he has no outwardly recognizable signs of disease. We'll have to keep a close eye on him."

            "Duh-Doctor Soames says no-nobody can disturb the Father while he's s-sleepin." 

            Trevor met the gaze of the doctor directly, his every ounce of willpower intent on dispelling the notion that he was inebriated. "Well, I'm sorry to bother him, but I'm a childhood friend of his. I also happen to be the Wallachia Town Sheriff, and I come on official business." There was still a noticeable slur in his voice, but that was alright. For all they knew, he had a bothersome speech impediment like Dennis's.

            The doctor hesitated. "Let me check on him first, hmm?" He was gone without waiting for an answer.

            Trevor cleared his throat and tapped his foot impatiently. His stomach had rolled itself into a sickly little ball. He no longer felt sure at all that he should have come here. The old memories were just too much. What right did he have anyway, showing up in the darkest hour of the night (_the hour of witches_, he couldn't help adding with a touch of unease), drunk and edging toward belligerent? He could try his best to fool himself all he wanted, but his visit here had a distinctly self-serving purpose. He hadn't arrived to check in on old Emmerich after all of these years, hadn't even come as a last-ditch attempt to save his own damaged faith. It was only to make himself feel better about himself and his life in general. And most of that was based on a premonition that, however strong it might be, had absolutely no basis in fact and reality whatsoever. He might as well have been reading his own Tarot cards. 

            "Sir?" Trevor looked up and saw Dennis giving him a knowing look. "'S n-n-not official bussin-ness that draws you h-here, is it?" He shook his head, answering his own question. "Nuh-no, of course not. There's something aw-off about you, but I can't teh-teh-teh-tell…" He had to stop and take a breath, and simply trailed off. 

            Trevor smiled. "It's that obvious, is it." 

            "No need to tell m-me. I'm sure the Father w-will be h-h-happy to h-h-help you in any way he ca-can."

            "It's not help I seek, really. More… assurance."

            "I s-see. So many vi-visit us for that." Dennis shook his head, as if in mild wonder, and turned back to the door. Trevor wondered who exactly had labeled the young man as feeble. Probably the folks who hadn't the patience to hear him out. He started to say something to Dennis about this, but the doctor appeared at the door again and gestured impatiently. 

            "Come along, Constable. Ten minutes, and no more. I simply cannot allow much time." Trevor followed him down a narrow, torch-lit corridor to a large bedroom. Emmerich Corso (Father _Corso, _he reminded himself again) was sitting up in a small cot next to the wall. He was wearing long underwear and soft brown moccasins. His face was large and ruddy, and by all appearances perfectly healthy. His hair, which was thinning in his mid-thirties, was a blonde the color of wheat or flax. The scar under his nose, courtesy of a wild dog, stretched from his left nostril almost to his cheekbone. Seeing it brought home another memory to Trevor: Emmerich staggering down the sunset dappled dirt road north of town and holding his face behind his hands, which had been dripping bright red blood that dried almost instantly in the dust and hot air. He had lurched drunkenly and, before Trevor could run over and catch him, collided with a tree, opening a fresh wound in his forehead. _"Mad dog!!"_ he had shrieked, his eleven-year old voice reaching a register of such shrillness that Trevor was mildly worried he would rupture something in his throat. _"Oh help oh fuck fuck it's a mad DOG!! It BIT my FACE!! It's MAD and I'm KILT, Trevor, I'm KILT!"_ Of course, Emmerich had not been killed and it had become his Worst Moment. Trevor had three Worst Moments of his own, and was delighted when this melodramatic behavior had been inaugurated as one for Emmerich. They would reminisce on these Moments once in a while, usually hiding behind the smithy's after smoking some of Em's grandfather's opium or getting a look up a city girl's skirt. They would lounge in a glen near the pond and talk for hours, Emmerich usually staring up at the sky, a thoughtful look on his face and a blade of grass in his teeth, while Trevor would sit Indian style, often starting small fires with a rock and flint. They would gossip and speculate about anything and everything under the sun, and they would remain there until dusk or even an hour or so later. Sometimes they would leave early and try to steal a keg from the taverns; other times they might be pirates or thieves on the run from the law, running around in the woods with other boys. There had been a small, burned-out shed in the northern section of the Termogent Forest which had served as their base of operations. Many Secret Meetings had transpired there. On a few memorable occasions nearly half a dozen boys had gathered to spend the night in the small shack (it had been named- what had it been?), and on one night, they had encountered Belzig, the massive one-eyed creature that the townspeople referred to as He Who Walks Behind the Rows. And a boy had turned up missing…

            But Trevor dismissed these thoughts so automatically that they might never have been formed. On the few occasions that he remembered the encounter with the Cyclops, he had not lingered over it much. He felt surprise, a subtle but very deep feeling of nervousness and unease, and the episode would be over seconds later. He had become so used to simply pushing the memory away that he was gradually beginning to regard it as a myth, or something that had happened thousands of years ago.

            Ridiculous! There had been no creatures of the night, no one-eyed behemoth full of killing spite. Such things were saved for Lucius's bedside, when he would launch into a bedtime story, some fantastic and joyful, others grim with a deep-rooted moral center. Lucius never grew bored or scoffed at the lessons, though; most of the stories were Montoya's, and few enjoyed good fables more than the Belmont family. 

            No, there hadn't been any deadly escapes, and there certainly hadn't been any dead boys, killed or eaten by Belzig. Locals said that the creature made his lair in the garden of a demolished pagan temple. Some claimed he had been drawn to the spot by the lingering evil presence, which had supposedly spread like a virus over the countryside, giving rise to the clans of harriers and murderers. Another school of thought held the opinion that the Satanic forces had spawned him in the first place. Everyone agreed on one thing, however: regardless of whether or not there _was _a prehistoric predator making his home just north of Wallachia, it was not a place to play after sundown. The remains of an old settlement were still strewn about in the woods, and there were just enough well-pits and wild animals to make mothers agonize with worry. Their fear was very well-founded, Trevor knew; being the Constable, he had seen enough accidents to know that whatever god had been appointed to watch over little boys and girls seemed to have gone on holiday, at least in Wallachia city.

            Now, Trevor looked up at Emmerich and managed a small, uncertain smile. "Time seems to have treated you well, brother."

            The priest nodded slowly, the light from the corner lantern shining on his waxy forehead. "It certainly has, Trevor. I'm thankful to see that I can say the same for you. Why not come in and break bread with me?"

            "At this late hour?" Trevor moved to a crudely constructed wooden chair near the cot. He turned it so the back was facing the sick man, and sat resting his forearms in front of him. "Are you sure you can eat? How are you feeling now?"

            Emmerich waved a hand, as if batting away a fly. "I'm as fine as I was ten years ago. That doctor's just taking precautions, Lord bless him. I do wish he'd go home for at least a few hours, though. I'm sure he's other patients to tend to."

            The silence spun out interminably. Suddenly Trevor didn't know what to say. Any ability of articulation he'd possessed had suddenly evaporated. _Perhaps I left it in a tumbler at the bar_, he thought suddenly, and his stomach turned at the thought of beer. 

            "How have you been, Em?" he asked after another minute. "How, really?"

            Emmerich looked him full in the eyes then, and even in the limited glow Trevor could tell that things were not as jolly as his friend would have him believe. No, in that moment Trevor saw a lot of things. Life had not been good at all for his old buddy old pal Emmerich Corso, and most likely hadn't been for some time. He might even be worse off than Trevor himself, a possibility that hadn't occurred to him in any sense, coherent or subconscious. 

            Father Corso didn't answer immediately. He swallowed, making a few clicking sounds in his dry throat. Outside, the storm lashed impatiently against the small square windows. Rainwater ran down the cracked and dirty glass like tears. The occasional flash of lightning would lend stark visibility to the room for a moment, making Emmerich's scar stand out on his face. Trevor didn't like to look at that scar. Seeing it somehow made him feel like turning around and running down the hall, running without pause until he made it home. He suddenly missed Dinah.

            Trevor decided not to make Emmerich answer. "I've been less than spectacular lately myself. Truth be told, it's a big part of why I'm here. See…" He trailed off and held his hand up in front of his face. He had been starting to make a grand sweeping gesture, like when he made uplifting speeches at the City Council meetings. It suddenly occurred to him that he talked with his hands a lot. 

            "Tell me." Emmerich was leaning forward intently. It was not a suggestion. It was an unmistakable demand. Almost exactly like when they had been boys. Em would have an idea of some sort, building a bear trap or maybe a flying machine, and Trevor would do most of the legwork. He hadn't minded. It had been fun. Even when most of the inventions (and that was exactly what they were; not devices or gadgets but _inventions_, like the creations of those mad scientists that Montoya liked to include in his stories) failed to work at all it had still been a good time. But sometimes Em would forget that they were equals, forget that they weren't Emmerich Assisted by Trevor but Em and Trev, the freaking Disaster Duo, and a peevish sort of arrogance would creep into his voice. He would stop making suggestions and start giving orders. Trevor the Honorable Engineer was relegated to Trevor the Chimney Sweeper. Harsh words followed and blows were exchanged. The longer they had known each other, the more common this phenomenon had become. 

            That tone had survived the years, it seemed, but now it was more insistent and less condescending. "Tell me and I'll tell you. Just like before."

            Trevor smiled. There was no humor in it. "Right. Just like before." He poured the priest some water from a jug on the small side table. He sat back and cleared his throat. "There's not terribly much to tell, I'm afraid. I know so little. My… I… well…"

            "Easy does it," Emmerich cautioned, and laid back down on the cot. He rolled on his side and faced Trevor, looking like a large and balding infant. "You have to start somewhere. No sense trying to take it all on at once. Begin with your smallest worry, and work your way up, like a mountain trail."

            _Or church steps_, Trevor thought, and had to cover his mouth to hide a grin. 

            "Okay…" He closed his eyes. "Well, there are three things. First…" He stopped. Emmerich waited patiently. "I think I may want to leave my post as Constable." He waited for a reaction from Emmerich, perhaps an admonishment, but received nothing. "I'm also growing apart from Dinah. I…" He looked down. "We fight so often. We almost never speak kindly to one another. I… I remember…" He paused again. He wasn't going to go on. If he did, he would likely begin sobbing.

            They were both quiet for a moment. 

            "Trevor." The priest spoke softly. There was no trace of the old voice of commandment. "Look into the fire of my lantern."

            The Constable's brow furrowed. "Alright, then." He fixed his gaze on the flame. It seemed to dance slowly, deliberately. In some ways it seemed almost beckoning. 

            "Don't concentrate on anything. Just look. Fire may be deadly, but it can have a certain healing power. Forget your troubles for just a moment, Trevor."

            Already Trevor seemed preoccupied. Thunder boomed outside, as if protesting Emmerich's advice. Presently his stare moved away from the flame and wick and made its way down the glass exterior of the lantern. He noticed the smudges of dirt and grime. Saw the fingerprints of countless monks and nuns dotted across the smooth surface, as random as freckles. The wood base had small symbols carved into it, and he studied these. They seemed almost to move in the flickering light. His eyes traced a path back up to the flame and rested there, tracking the bob and weave of its head. 

            _Come with me, Trevor_, the fire urged. _Step into me and be cleansed, for fire purifies all. Your sins will be forgiven and your troubles eradicated. I will hurt, yes, but only for a few moments. Darkness and sweet nothing will follow, and you will be absolved. Your responsibilities will be removed. I can provide that. _

            "Why do you think a space exists between you and Dinah? What could have caused such a misfortune?"

            "Elwood. Our other son." Trevor's voice was soft, serene. He might have been working, or reading a particularly good book. He answered, but his attention was elsewhere. "He died six years ago. Awful accident. Nothing's been the same since."

            "I remember hearing about that. I was on a mission during the funeral. I'm sorry you had to experience that. No man should bury his son."

            "I suppose it ties into my desire to leave the Guard, as well. You see, I was the first to arrive at the scene when we were notified."

            "Oh, my… my word…"

            "It was gruesome," Trevor admitted, but by his tone it would not have been obvious that he was describing the death of his first-born. He sounded distant, and his eyes stayed trained on the lantern. An eavesdropper would have assumed he was describing a particularly good play. "He was crushed, you know. By a wagon. Some traveling Irishman couldn't control his horses. They carried him into a market stall, and it just happened to be the one Elwood was standing in front of. He was hauling ale, I remember. The barrels and kegs smashed open and fell on him in an avalanche. Fell on Elwood, I mean. The merchant came out of it just as fit as a fiddle, don't you know. Anyway, the street was flooded and stagnant with the smell of alcohol. A lot of the bums and children were down on their knees, lapping up the brew. We hauled in a lot of disorderly vagrants _that_ night, I assure you!"

            Emmerich said nothing, but he was watching Trevor closely. The Constable had been smiling, but he raised his hand to his mouth and the smile disappeared, as if wiped away with a napkin. "His head was splattered," he added matter-of-factly. "When we finally lifted the wagon off of him, he was not recognizable as human. Thank God, I don't really remember what he looked like then. I'll tell you one thing, Em: I may not believe in the Lord like you do, but the fact that I don't remember his face on that day goes a long piece toward convincing me that there is a good and merciful God. Oh, yes. But, I'm straying off course again, aren't I? I saved the worst detail for last, even though it's very small. His pockets had been turned out. Somehow that was the worst for me. There was my son, lying there in the middle of the road with his brains dashed out and his grandfather's moccasins missing and his pockets emptied. I could just see in my mind's eye how some vagrant or hobo or Brown Person had crept up and slid a hand down his pants. It enraged me. Infuriated me. I attacked some of the gawkers in the crowd." He stopped and took a breath. The lantern flame danced and wavered, flickered and smoked in its cage of glass and wood. "They had no right to be present. No right, I tell you. Of course, King Seldon- long live he and all that balderdash- would have decreed that they were not violating any laws, but that is not true. My son was not a spectacle. He had just departed on the greatest of journeys, never to return to this mortal coil. Such a leaving should be taken in privacy, or with the company of loved ones. Elwood had neither." The last sentence he said flatly, with a hint of disdain. The Father noticed that a bit of the Wallachia townsfolk dialect had slipped back into his voice, and that if Trevor kept it up he would be _thee_ing and _thou_ing by the time the sun peered over the horizon.

            "I never talked to Dinah about it. I know how that sounds, but there it is. Lucius was just starting his schooling, and we were still very dependant on our crops, mostly the corn. And this is going to sound worst of all, but I forgot him. I stopped thinking about Elwood. It was easier than confronting the reality of it. In a very real sense, he had never existed for me."

            The priest sipped his water. His mouth had gone completely dry. "That was when you… grew distant from one another?"

            "Yes. It seems strange, right? Most couples grow stronger in their mourning. But not us. I closed myself off from her. I'm not afraid to love, but I don't want to. Not at all."

            "Do you still love Dinah, Trevor?"

            "No." There was no hesitation.

            Emmerich seemed to consider. "Have you had mistresses, Trevor?"

            "Yes. Two."

            The priest sighed and cleared his throat. "What's the third obstacle, Trevor? What lies at the end of your mountain road? What ordeal could eclipse the collapse of your marriage?"

            Trevor was silent for a moment. He saw nothing. The flame of the lantern was gone. His eyes were turned inward, searching. He turned to his friend and his eyes were blank, vacant.

            "Darkness." It was almost a whisper.

            "What was that?"

            "Darkness, I said. A darkness eternal. A dying man, in many ways already dead, warned me of an impending chaos. I scoffed at the time, but I believe him. I've had unfounded feelings-"

            "Dreams."

            "Dreams…? You know that of which I speak."

            Emmerich raised the badly formed clay cup to his lips again. His hand was shaking. "Yes, Trevor, I believe I know what you feel. How long has this persisted?"

            "I couldn't say. I can remember it as far back as when they still sold reap charms at the Timber Marketplace."

            Emmerich sat up again and leaned forward, watching his friend's eyes. "Over the past several years there have been increasing reports of bizarre creatures roaming the land. I don't just mean exotic animals; people claim to have seen things not of this world. It's almost like the border that divides dimensions has grown weak. Trevor, do you remember that night at Agonne Bastion? Do you remember the Guardian of the Forest?"

            Trevor looked suddenly at Emmerich. The power of his not-quite-hypnosis had snapped like a small twig. The doctor entered then, his spectacles hanging from a fine chain at his breast. He cleared his throat and both men looked up at him. "Constable, I'm going to have to ask you to take leave. The time is nearly one o' the clock. I've given you far more time than I should have." He waited, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his eyes gazing at them severely. 

            Trevor and Emmerich looked at each other. Neither could have described the feelings of almost childish terror and unease that gripped them. Trevor was wet with sweat, his tunic covered with large dark spots. The priest stared back, his mouth opening and closing in a silent O, as if he were impersonating a fish. Finally, Trevor stood up shakily and held out his hand. 

            "Come see me soon. At morning, if you can." Emmerich's voice was intent. He squeezed Trevor's hand. "You must, we simply _must _speak of this! I fear… there may be a…" His gaze shifted to the doctor and he seemed to collect himself. "We will talk."

            Trevor nodded without speaking. He seemed unable to speak. Doctor Soames led him to the entrance. His legs felt like blocks of wood. He was vaguely aware that the older gentleman was apologizing, explaining the need for caution and discretion, and assuring Trevor that he would assist the Wallachia Guard in any way possible. Then the door boomed shut behind him, echoing off of the stone exterior of the church, and he was alone in the wind and rain.

            He started in the direction of home. A few minutes passed before he realized that he was consciously not thinking about what had just happened. That was almost definitely for the best. He would instead think about his memories of their evenings together, and how they had gradually but inevitably parted ways. Yes, it had been just like a marriage going bad from the inside out; an apple rotting during the long, dry summer. He would walk the rest of the way home, his thoughts treading safe ground with memories of Em, and he would stay far away from nightmarish recollections like that of the Cyclops, which had flooded back into his consciousness with shocking force as soon as the priest had mentioned it. He would also take special care not to think about how tonight's visit had gone so utterly, horribly, and irrefutably wrong, thank you. He would take extra pains to forget how this entire expedition had blown up like an improperly loaded musket, only instead of erasing his face and taking his life, it was chipping away at his sanity, bit by bit.

            Yes, how wonderful it was not to think of these things!

            He had just enough time to turn to the side before the vomiting started again.

            That was one thing throwing up had in its favor: while you were doing it, you couldn't think about anything else.

            _Wallachia Town Cemetery_

            Early Morning 

            The skies shouted overhead like quarrelling lovers, and Gabriel Sheridan paced in a small circle. He was oblivious to the crashing of the storm and the occasional rumblings of passing chariots. Sometime after Trevor left the Catholic Church, a small bolt of lightning had struck a naked, leafless oak tree in the northeastern corner of the burial ground. Splinters and sections of trunk had exploded in all directions, scorching the grass and starting a small fire that was quickly smothered by the constant rain. Some pieces of bark had been thrown all the way to the Great Deacon Road, and some of the coaches thumped over the larger ones, causing the horse drivers to worry whether they had snapped a wheel. Sheridan was untouched by any of this, physically or emotionally. 

            His stride quickened, left foot right foot, and as the dirt became soggy and eventually turned into a nasty quagmire, Sheridan's thoughts followed suit. The Master was not supposed to be this late. Gods, no! Approaching this field of the dead, he had felt the strong rush that was commonly associated with the arrival of the Prince of Darkness. He would have been hard-pressed to describe his initial impression of it, but he would have been happy to share the experience with anyone that cared to listen. He had been completely and utterly alone since a large group of raiders had massacred his village. That had been nearly four years ago. Sheridan could not remember the town's name, and had only the vaguest recollection of its streets and citizens. He knew nothing of his current location, either. Was he still in Romania? His hometown could have been thousands of wheels south, covered by a lake, for all he knew. Or perhaps he was standing in its remains, right this very moment. Endless possibilities occurred to him, but none seemed particularly realistic or conclusive. 

            He had covered many miles, and met many people. A lot of these often eccentric folk were imaginary; there was much more eating away at Sheridan's brain than illness. The hallucinations he happened upon were often young virgins ready to share a bed in exchange for some minor protection from highwaymen. Other times the apparitions might take the forms of monks or farmers with families. A few times he had even seen _his _family. None of them would keep him company for long, however. They would stay and talk and spend the night, or maybe even a few nights, and the next morning they would simply be gone, having taken perhaps some coins or a few chunks of bread. Sheridan didn't mind this, though; he never remembered his visitors. Most probably any missing food or money had been taken by children or wild animals. 

            His run of thought continued, making the same circles as his feet were: the Master was on his way, the Master's presence was fading, the Master was testing his patience, the Master had judged him too weak for his plans. This went on for so long that he had actually managed to create a rut in the soft earth, like those cartoon characters in the newspapers that paced around for an extended period of time. 

            He slowed down, coming to a gradual stop in front of a tombstone that read LORNA COLE, BELUVD WIFE AND MUM. He put his hands on his hips and frowned. This was not accomplishing anything, this mindless cursing and muttering. His eyes closed until they were slits, glinting with intelligence and anger. The Master had not forsaken him. They had forged a bond. This was simply a test of some sort, designed to check his loyalty, or maybe his wits. 

            _Ah, so it be a puzzle, then!_ he thought, and a leering smile broke out on his face. _As a Prince of Hell ye may be, ye'll soon know that I'm a pert one! Wery pert, indeed!_

            He retraced his steps. That feeling in the air, the almost palpable sense of something amazing arriving, had definitely been there. Why else would he have run haplessly toward his destination, leaving poor Oppenheimer to starve in the drawers of the flatlands? He missed his poor mule, who had been suffering nearly as much as he. An equal companion would be hard to find. 

            Sheridan remembered what it was like to see the Master arrive, oh yes. Having seen it once, you weren't likely to forget. It was less of a physical thing than something that overcame the _mind. _Doorways of memory would open, horrible ones. Scenes of trauma, horror, and guilt were replayed over and over. Sheridan remembered the guilt most of all. He had stolen only once in his life (as a child, but Sheridan was becoming more convinced that he had never been a child, not in the true sense of the word), but he had sinned plenty for a man of his age. The shame and horror at these sins weighed on him like a crushing rock at first- then the Prince appeared in physical form. 

            The Master, who called himself Count Dracula, was intensely charming and attractive. He was just over six feet tall, with fairly broad shoulders and a head that seemed slightly too small for the frame. His long black hair reached to the middle of his back and was so clean and healthy-looking that Sheridan almost wanted to take his hand and run it through that thick mane. _That hair. _What would it feel like to smell it, run it through his fingers, maybe even _taste _it? Dracula's eyes were small and often changed color. They could pin you down with a single glance, but not with fear. Looking into the eyes of the Count, Sheridan felt more than confidence and compassion. He felt _purpose. _He had been a mere wanderer just two weeks ago, but now he would be one of the most crucially important men in the history of mankind. Who else could claim to have the power to alter the fate of the human race? Why, he would be-

            Quickly, Sheridan slapped himself in the face twice, a small grunt escaping his lips on the second strike. He needed to focus. It would do no good to reminisce on the joy his Master brought him. For now, that was a dead end. He must focus on the task at hand… but what _was _that task?

            But gods, it was overwhelming! The crushing shame of his sins and imperfections was effortlessly erased by Dracula! The immeasurable relief that it brought was like medicine for the dying; after the moment had begun, he marveled at how he had survived without the Master for so long. 

            He swore to himself and left the tombstone of the BELUVD WIFE. He would walk and talk with the dead. They were his friends. And why not? He would be among their number very soon. Sheridan felt a strange sort of peace in the boneyards. The residents were happy to listen, and there was never any argument. The dead were understanding and they respected the living and the troubled. 

            He walked up to a broken headstone, the script illegible. "'N who were ye, in this bloody dreadful life?" he asked the grave. "Was ye of noble blood? Or did ye spend the days stealin bread from the stands and market? Did ye die a pauper?" He moved to the next stone in the row. This continued until he neared the eastern wall of the graveyard. 

            He drew up to a tombstone (three were left in this row) and cleared his throat, spitting a thick wad of green phlegm to the ground. Although he scarcely realized it, these questioning conversations with the dead (Rikuo Montoya would undoubtedly have referred to these as speculogies, with a sly grin and a glint of fierce humor in his eye) had become a ritual. With the passing of each graveyard in his travels, he visited the interred. He selected a row at random (though it was usually near the back) and passed them all, laughing and joking, confessing and interrogating.

            The next marker was very large and had an angel perched above it. The front bore the inscription: RITA LeCOOK OUR BABY! WE WILL MISS YOU. There was more, but it was covered by moss and mud.

            "I do wonder if ye were faithful to yer hubby, Rita," Sheridan croaked. His voice was creaky and raspy from use. He had done more talking in the last twenty minutes than he tended to do in months. He scraped the growths away from the gravestone and felt a dull flush rise in his pockmarked cheeks. Rita had been six years old. 

            He remembered her now. The bandit that had just been executed in town was believed to have killed this one, along with most of her siblings. Sheridan shook his head, a snarl of rage etched on his face like a scar. He knew about losing children, he did. He knew the pain

            _(Gabriel)_

            of watching not just one but all of your babies as they were relentlessly taken from you, stolen as one would steal a horse. The method of their passing didn't matter; flood, disease, or murder, it all amounted to the same. Maybe not at first,

            _(Gabriel)_

but given time that didn't matter, nothing mattered. Nothing but the loss. Sheridan wanted to take Rita's mother by the hand, hold her and tell her

            _(Gabriel my dear Gabriel)_

            that she was not alone. In fact she-

            _(GABRIEL COME HERE THIS INSTANT)_

            Sheridan looked up suddenly, a small cry escaping his lips. He knew that voice, knew it very well. Only there was absolutely no way he was hearing this voice right now, because its owner had been dead for nearly half a century. 

            _(WHY DON'T YOU COME SIT BY YOUR GRANDMOTHER)_

            He turned, and she _was _there. He was standing in the middle of a graveyard on the outskirts of a city he didn't know, speaking to the bodies of some who had been dead for hundreds of years, waiting for the arrival of a supernatural being, and here was Gramma, sitting in her favorite rocking chair that had always been kept by the fireplace in her cabin. She was floating about five feet from the ground; her chair moved back and forth on thin air. She even had the fan she'd always carried. It had a lovely picture of a sunset on it. As he watched, she opened it for him, displaying the simple watercolors. 

            (_WELL, YOU MUST BE ONE THEY CALL GABRIEL, EH?)_ Gramma asked, and tipped him a wink. Now that he looked closer, it really wasn't his long-dead grandmother. This was another woman, similar in age and nationality but a different person nonetheless, dressed up like a doll for his benefit.

            "And who are _you_?" he asked. His voice hit a high pitch and cracked. "Ye not be my grammy… no matter how ye may look her."

            _(I'M NOT YOUR GRANDMOTHER, SON, AND I'M SURE NOT ANYONE YOU KNOW. BUT YOU KNOW WHO I REPRESENT.)_

            Sheridan stood for a moment with his mouth hanging open, trying to process all of this. Could this entity possibly have been sent on behalf of the Count? His eyes widened as he considered this possibility. It was also likely that there were forces working _against _his Master. Maybe…

            "Speak ye name, and be done wid'it!" he yelled in his rusty voice. His throat felt like it had been burned with a torch. "You carry no fear for me, spectre!"

            _(YES, I CAN SEE THAT. AND WHY SHOULD I? YOU HAVE COME TO ACCEPT MY PRESENCE IN YOUR LIFE LONG AGO.)_

            The woman fanned herself contentedly. Sheridan noticed that she had some warts and her teeth were yellowed. Gramma had never been sloppy like that.

            "Do ye know of-"

            _(SPEAK NOT AGAIN, GABRIEL! I CAN HEAR YOUR MIND CLEARLY. TROUBLE YOUR POOR LUNGS NO MORE. YOU SOUND SICK. NOT TO MENTION THAT THE SOUND CARRIES AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT.)_

            Sheridan licked his lips. Could this thing really communicate through the mind? He reached a mental hand out, feeling for something, a doorknob in a dark room. 

            _(STOP TRYING SO HARD. THINK AS YOU NORMALLY WOULD.)_

            He coughed hoarsely into his fist. He _was _coming down with something, and at this point it just might finish him off. He put his index finger to his temple like the fortunetellers that traveled with the gypsies. 

            _Who are ye, Spirit?_

            _(MUCH BETTER. ISN'T THAT EASIER? HASN'T THE PAIN LEFT YOU?)_

            _Why don't ye answer my question?_

_            (BECAUSE, GABRIEL, IT HAS NO ANSWER. I DO NOT HAVE A TRUE NAME. I AM NOT A THINKING ENTITY. I SIMPLY EXIST, TRAVELLING WITH YOU AND ALL OTHERS OF THIS EARTH ON THEIR DAILY ROUTINES.)_

Sheridan tried to make his mind as blank as an artist's easel. He couldn't even begin to imagine what this creature was talking about, but he felt sure about two things: this apparition was closely related to the Count, and its power was almost equal to his.

_            (I AM THE FORCE KNOWN AS DEATH. I TOOK THIS WOMAN'S BODY FOR MY OWN A FEW MINUTES AGO. SHE JUST PASSED AWAY IN HER SLEEP. I COULDN'T HAVE ASKED FOR BETTER TIMING. IT'S UNFORTUNATE, BUT I WON'T BE ABLE TO RETURN IT TO HER FAMILY. THEY WILL NEVER KNOW WHAT BECAME OF HER.)_

            _Why can't you… _But then he knew. He could see it in the image of the elderly woman with the utmost clarity. The teeth that had previously been yellow and cracked were now black. Her thinning hair had disappeared almost entirely, and her scalp showed with a strange lump near the back. The hands, large and with leathery skin just moments ago, had become twisted claws. The woman's body was decaying at an amazing rate before his eyes. Sheridan could almost see the tissues and muscles as they dried out and putrified.

"Do you serve m' Master?" he asked, licking his lips fearfully. He was unaware that he had spoken aloud. 

            (I SERVE NONE OF THIS WORLD, GABRIEL. I MERELY MAKE AGREEMENTS. NOW LISTEN CAREFULLY, MY BOY. THERE IS ANOTHER LIKE YOU RAMBLING ABOUT THIS CITY. A WOMAN. SHE HAS BEEN DISCOVERED.)

            He brightened instantly. A woman for him?! Then his eyes narrowed again in suspicion and he looked the woman full in the face. She was now beginning to bloat. A dreadful smell wafted toward him in the wet night air. 

            Who be the lady?

            (AN OUTCAST. ANOTHER ASSOCIATE OF YOUR MASTER'S. SHE HAD MUCH WORK, BUT IT IS NOW YOURS. HER EXISTENCE IS NO LONGER A SECRET. I WILL BE VISITING HER SOON.)

            Who found 'er?

            (A GUARD O' THE WATCH. THAT IDIOTIC LAUGHING MAN. WIND YOUR TRAIL AROUND THE WALLACHIA GUARD, GABRIEL. THE SHERIFF IN PARTICULAR. THEY ARE THE MOST DANGEROUS PART OF YOUR MISSION.)

            Sheridan coughed suddenly, falling to his knees. Blood flew from his mouth and coated his closed fist. He felt like something was tearing in his poor chest. He looked up at the ghost named Death and smiled, a vicious snarl. There was very little sanity left in that smile. 

            "Give me my orders, sperrit! My life for him!"

            (THAT'S VERY WELL, GABRIEL. NOW STEP CLOSER. WE HAVE MUCH TO DISCUSS, DON'T WE?)

            He moved closer to the woman, farther into the graveyard, into the awful, cloying stink. There was no turning back now; Sheridan had chosen his path for good. And he would stand at the gates of Hell with a smile and whistle, he reckoned. 

            The storm went on. The night drew toward dawn. 

            Death talked. Gabriel listened, understanding lighting up his pitiful face.


End file.
